Death of a Bore hm-21

by M C Beaton

  “Minor things. Cannabis smoking. That sort of thing. Nothing major.”

  “I wonder if any of them are mad.”

  “You mean crazy?”

  “Yes, a history of mental disorder.”

  “If they have, it wouldn’t be on the police files; it would be on their medical records.”

  “I think someone really unbalanced is responsible for this. Someone went into a crazy rage and killed John Heppel and then panicked and tried to make it look like suicide. By the way, did forensics ever come up with an explanation as to why they missed taking John Heppel’s computer?”

  “They keep saying it was black on a black desk. They must have missed it.”

  “That’s very odd. I mean, there they are, looking for hair and fibres and bits of dust, and they miss a whole computer.”

  “I think they’re covering up for one of the team. I think it’s likely that one of them said he had loaded it up when he hadn’t. There’s one of them, Jock Ferguson, who’s hardly ever sober. He should have been fired long ago, but he’s a leading light of the Strathbane police rugby team. Drunk or sober, he plays a grand game and they don’t want to lose him. There’s an enquiry going on.”

  “Right. Talk to you later.”

  Hamish drove back to John’s cottage. The forensic team were just packing up. “Which of you is Jock Ferguson?” he asked.

  A huge man stepped forward. Hamish could smell whisky on him.

  “I want to know why you missed the computer.”

  “I’m sick o’ this,” said Jock truculently. “It was an oversight. That’s all. We’d checked it for prints and there weren’t any and there was nothing on the computer either.”

  “But there might have been something on the hard drive.”

  “There’s an enquiry going on, and I can’t stand here all day talking to you.”

  Hamish watched him go. He was convinced the man was lying. Had someone bribed him to forget the computer?

  He wondered where Jock drank and if he had been seen drinking with any of the television people.

  He watched until the forensic team had packed up and left, then phoned Jimmy again. “I’ve just spoken to Jock Ferguson, and I’m sure he’s lying. I wonder if someone got to him about that computer. Where does he drink?”

  “I guess with the rugby boys in the Thistle. It’s that pub down Glebe Lane in Strathbane.”

  “I know it. I’m going to go there.”

  “Hamish, if Blair finds out you’ve been in Strathbane, there’ll be ructions.”

  “What happened with Patricia?”

  “Grilled for hours but sticks to her story.”

  “Has she been charged with obstructing the police?”

  “No. Get this: Blair’s taken a fancy to her.”

  “I didn’t think that man took a fancy to anything that didn’t come in a bottle.”

  “I tell you, he’s gone all soppy. And, get this, she’s persuaded that director, Paul Gibson, to pay Blair a fee as police adviser. He’s starstruck.”

  After Hamish had rung off, he climbed back into the Land Rover and headed for Lochdubh, marvelling again at the magic of television. It seemed to be like some sort of drug. People would appear on humiliating game shows just to get in front of the camera.

  As he was approaching Strathbane, Elspeth’s face seemed to appear before him. He really must take her out for dinner and have a chat. He was behaving like a cad by avoiding her.

  But his feelings about her were still mixed. Some of the time he felt a sexual longing for her, and at others he felt she threatened his bachelor freedom.

  He parked in Strathbane and headed for the Thistle.

  He went up to the barman and flashed his identification.

  “Jock Ferguson drinks in here, doesn’t he?”

  “Aye, most nights.”

  “Have you ever seen him drinking with anyone from Strathbane Television?”

  “I watch that soap of theirs, so I would recognise the actors, and I never saw him with one of them.”

  “Did you ever see him drinking with anyone who wasn’t part of the usual rugby crowd?”

  He frowned in thought. Then he said slowly, “There was one night recently he was in here, and instead of standing at the bar like he usually does, he was over in the corner with a fellow with thick grey hair and a sort of actor’s face. Small eyes, squashy nose.”

  Paul Gibson, thought Hamish. Could it have been Paul Gibson?

  ∨ Death of a Bore ∧

  12

  Good Lord, what is man! For as simple he looks, Do but try to develop his hooks and his crooks, With his depths and his shallows, his good and his evil, All in all, he’s a problem must puzzle the devil.

  —Robert Burns

  Hamish phoned back to the police station and checked his messages. There was one from Kirsty. “I’ve got it,” she said.

  He phoned the television station and asked to speak to her. “Where can we meet?” he asked.

  “You promised me dinner.”

  “So I did,” said Hamish. “I’ll meet you at eight o’clock in the Tommel Castle Hotel.”

  But when he rang off, his mind was buzzing with the news that it had possibly been Paul Gibson who had been drinking with Jock Ferguson. Damn! He was slipping. He hadn’t asked when. He went back to the Thistle, but the barman couldn’t remember the precise evening, only that it had been about a week ago.

  Hamish then phoned Elspeth. “I need your help.”

  “Oh, really? I wondered when you were going to deign to talk to me.”

  “Come on, Elspeth. I’ve been that busy. This might turn out to be a big story for you.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m in Strathbane, but I can be at the hotel in half an hour.”

  “See you in the bar.”

  ♦

  When Hamish entered the bar, Elspeth was sitting in a corner. She was wearing a tailored trouser suit and a white silk blouse. Her hair was smooth and shiny. Once again, he found himself missing the old Elspeth, who wore dreadful clothes and had frizzy hair. This new Elspeth seemed somehow unapproachable.

  “Sit down, Hamish. What gives?”

  “For the moment this is off the record,” he cautioned her. “Okay. Talk.”

  He told her about Jock Ferguson and his suspicion that the forensic man had been drinking with Paul Gibson. Her odd silver eyes fixed on his face, Elspeth asked, “So where do I come in?”

  “Gibson’s English. I want to get a bit of background on him. Do you think you could tell him you want to write a profile on him and find out what shows he’s worked on before? I don’t want to pull him in for questioning. If he’s our murderer, then he’s mad and dangerous.”

  “Okay, Sherlock. He’s still in the lounge for the great-detective-reveals-all scene. When they break, I’ll catch him.”

  There was a long silence. Hamish shifted uncomfortably. Then he said, “I don’t know how to handle us, Elspeth.”

  “I know. But I’ve grown out of casual affairs, Hamish.”

  “It wasn’t a casual affair.”

  “But you didn’t want to make it permanent?”

  “No. I mean, I don’t know. If you looked like the old Elspeth, it would be easier to talk. But you look so sophisticated.”

  “It’s still me underneath.”

  “Let me have time to think, Elspeth.”

  She looked at him sadly. “If you need time to think, Hamish Macbeth, then it means you don’t want to commit yourself to anything.”

  “I’m not saying that. Please, Elspeth.”

  “Okay. I’ll find out about Paul Gibson. Maybe we’ll talk when all this is over.”

  “I’d like that.”

  Two actors walked into the bar. Elspeth got to her feet. “They seem to be taking a break,” she said. “Where will you be?”

  “Back at the police station.”

  “I’ll phone you if I’ve got something.”

  ♦

  Els
peth went through to the lounge and approached Paul Gibson. “I’m from the Daily Bugle,” she said. “I wonder if I might interview you.”

  “Of course,” he said.

  “Now?”

  “Yes, now would be fine.”

  They sat down in a corner of the lounge. “What’s this?” he said. “No tape recorder, no notebook?”

  “I’ve a great memory, and I find either of those things puts people off.” Elspeth did actually tape interviews but saw no reason to waste tape on an interview that would never be published, and she did indeed have an excellent memory. “Just begin at the beginning and go on from there. What attracted you to show business?”

  Paul seemed only too happy to talk. He had grown up in the East End of London. His family life had been unhappy. His father had run away when he was very small. He had spent a lot of his time at the cinema. After school he had managed to get a degree in media studies at Luton University and had got a job as a researcher at the BBC. He had progressed to script editor and then director. He had decided to freelance. He described the shows he had directed. There was a production of Vanity Fair and then a popular spy series. The spy series had been filmed in 1995. There was a gap until he began to direct a few soap operas starting in 1998, which had all been failures, Elspeth remembered.

  “What were you doing between 1995 and 1998?” she asked.

  “Oh, this and that,” he said airily. Elspeth did not press him. He said that when Harry Tarrant had phoned his agent and offered the job in the Highlands, he had been delighted to accept. “I’ve always been romantic about Scotland,” he enthused.

  “Did you have any difficulties with John Heppel’s script? I mean, he was hardly a television writer.”

  “Oh, I tweaked it a bit. John was happy. We got on just fine.”

  Elspeth then let him talk on about himself and his brilliance as a director and finished by taking photographs of him.

  Then she went up to her room and typed out everything he had said on her computer, printed it off, and took it down to the police station in Lochdubh.

  “This last soap he directed, Spanish Nights, it didn’t run long, did it?” asked Hamish.

  “It was a monumental failure. They even built a pseudo-village in Spain to use as the setting.”

  “But this gap. What was the spy series?”

  “It was called Betrayal. Filmed by Church Television. They do a lot of programmes for ITV. I’ll phone the office in London and see if they’ve got a contact.”

  Hamish went into the kitchen, where he fed Lugs, lit the stove, and put on a kettle of water for coffee. Elspeth was on the phone for half an hour.

  She finally joined him, her face flushed with excitement. “I got through to Church Television. I spoke to one of the producers. He remembers Paul. He was fired from the spy series after the third episode. He had been quarrelling the whole time with the producer, and then he punched him in the face, right on the set, calling him an amateur. He was fired and had a nervous breakdown. The company were very sympathetic. Said he’d been working very hard and it was due to stress.”

  Hamish went through to the computer. “Let me get his statement. Here we are. He says he was back at his digs in Strathbane the whole evening of the murder. I’m going down there to question his neighbours.”

  But when Hamish arrived at Paul’s address in Strathbane, it was to find that he rented the top half of a villa and that the people downstairs were away on holiday and none of the neighbours had noticed him coming or going.

  He went back to Lochdubh, walked Lugs, and changed into his one good suit, then went to the hotel to meet Kirsty.

  Her first words were, “Aren’t we going to get a drink at the bar first?”

  “We’ll have one at the table,” said Hamish. He wanted to make the evening as short as possible so that he could study that script at his leisure.

  She was wearing a skimpy top, which showed her bare midriff, and low-slung velvet trousers. She had a small diamond in her navel.

  Hamish was always glad that there was a new maître d’ at the hotel to replace the Halburton-Smythes’ former butler, who had once filled that post. He had always sneered at Hamish.

  There was a set menu, but Kirsty went straight to the à la carte. She ordered a lobster cocktail, to be followed by fillet steak. “I think we should have a bottle of white wine to start,” she said brightly, “and one of these nice reds to follow.”

  “Aren’t you driving?”

  “I took a minicab, and if you’re a good boy, I’ll let you drive me home.”

  Hamish thought of his meagre bank balance. He ordered the set meal for himself. Kirsty ordered the wine. As Hamish would be driving, she drank most of it herself. She said, “You can look at the script later. This is my evening.”

  And she chattered. She talked about her hair shampoo and about how she hoped to be a model. She talked about her diet – not much in evidence, thought Hamish sourly. She talked about her friends and their love life and somehow managed to drink and eat at the same time.

  Hamish excused himself and said he had to go to the toilet. Instead, he signalled to the maltre d’, who followed him out of the dining room. “Peter,” said Hamish desperately, “I havenae enough money with me.”

  “Tell you what,” said Peter. “I’ll say the bill’s on your account and you can make some arrangement with Mr. Johnson tomorrow when he comes on duty.”

  “Thanks.”

  “That’s going to be one very drunk young lady.”

  “I know.”

  Hamish returned to the table. Kirsty continued to drink and eat. Her voice became more slurred, and she began to press her foot against Hamish’s under the table. He jerked his chair back. She tried to take his hand. He pretended not to notice and put his hands on his lap. She finished her meal with a confection of strawberries, cream, and meringue, washed down with a half bottle of dessert wine.

  “Now let’s see that script,” said Hamish over coffee. Kirsty waggled a finger at him and giggled. “Not yet.”

  At the end of the meal Hamish had to help the staggering Kirsty out to the car park. She draped her arms around him and tried to kiss him, but he disengaged himself and helped her into the police Land Rover.

  As he drove off, to his immense relief she fell asleep. He drove gently a little way and stopped. He reached across her to where she had put her briefcase on the floor; and gently extracted the script in its green folder and put it in the side pocket of the Land Rover. Then he sped off, driving as fast as possible to Strathbane. On the outskirts he woke her up and asked for directions.

  Outside the block of flats where she lived, he helped her down. “Come in for a coffee,” she said.

  “Sorry, I’ve got to get back.”

  “No coffee, no script.”

  Hamish helped her up to the front door of the flats. Then he turned and sprinted back to the Land Rover, jumped in, and drove off, leaving her staring wearily after him.

  ♦

  Hamish told a protesting Lugs he would need to walk himself, let the dog out, and went into the police office, opened the script, and began to read. The opening said:

  Wide shot. The village lies by the sea loch hiding its ancient Gaelic secrets behind closed doors. It is winter and during the long dark nights passions build up and old enmities fester. As Alphonse Karr so rightly put it, “Plus ça change, plus c’est la meme chose.”

  ANNE MACKENZIE and the laird walk along the street. Cut into tight close-up, then track and pan to the door of the pub.

  Hamish frowned. He wished he knew more about scripts.

  Lugs came in and sulkily slumped down at his master’s feet with a sigh. Hamish read on. How had Paul Gibson felt, he wondered, being asked to direct this flowery script where the author stated what camera angles he wanted as well?

  He phoned the hotel and asked to speak to Elspeth. “Hamish, it’s after midnight,” she protested.

  “I have the script. I could do with your help.
”

  “Oh, well, I’m awake now. Bring it up.”

  “Can I bring Lugs?”

  “Why not? The hotel allows dogs.”

  Lugs pranced happily out to the Land Rover and waited, with his ridiculous plume of a tail wagging, to be lifted in.

  ♦

  Elspeth opened her room door to them. She was wrapped in a dressing gown and her hair was tousled. Hamish felt a surge of the old desire, but her eyes were on the script under his arm.

  “Come in,” she said. “Sit down and let’s have a look.”

  She took the script from him and began to read. Hamish waited patiently. At last she put the script down on her lap and stared at him. “Harry Tarrant must be a right fool. This is rubbish.”

  “You see,” said Hamish eagerly, “what I’m thinking is this. We’ve got a director who’s had a nervous breakdown, recovered, but been associated with failures. Down in the Glen has a big audience. He may have seen it as his chance. Then he gets this script. Do you know any television directors?”

  “I know an up-and-coming one on Scottish Television. I think I’ve got his number in my book.”

  “Phone him now!”

  “Don’t be daft. At this time of night?”

  Elspeth reluctantly got the number and phoned. Hamish heard her asking for a Willie Thompson. Then he heard her say, “In Inverness? Which hotel? Right Sorry to wake you.”

  “He’s in Inverness filming a documentary on the new highland prosperity.”

  “What’s that, I wonder?” said Hamish, thinking of the dinner bill.

  “He’s at the Caledonian Hotel.”

  “I’ll get down there first thing in the morning.”

  “I’ll come with you. I’m not doing anything else, and Matthew is besotted with Freda and seems to have lost interest.”

  “Can we go in your car? I took a risk driving the girl I got the script from back to Strathbane, and I don’t want Blair to see me on the road.”

  “I don’t have my car. Matthew drove. I’ll take one of the hotel cars. What time? It’d better be early.”

  “Seven in the morning?”

  Elspeth groaned. “Right you are, copper. I’ll pick you up.”

  ♦

  “Do you have to bring your dog?” demanded Elspeth the following morning as Hamish lifted Lugs into the backseat.